A Study in The Art of Charms
by WarriorQueenBoudicea
Summary: Loki Laufeyson has come to Hogwarts with the intent of building an army of the finest young wizards and witches Midgard has to offer. When two Slytherin witches catch his eye, he must find a way to persuade them to follow him - only these girls will prove more a challenge than he thought as he begins to question whose devotion in being won over. Warning: Lemon
1. Charms in September

Charms in September. Nowhere else in Hogwarts did the sun fill the room with air as swollen with its heat as it was cloying with its heaviness. The magic that so often trilled about the room congealed in a lazy mist that clung to the floorboards. The 7th-year Hogwartians that busied themselves coaxing magic from their wands began to wane in their fervor. For such bright witches and wizards, the latest crop of Slytherins to make it to Advanced Charms, diligence was noticeably scarce and in its stead was a rash of fidgeting limbs and fingers pulling at itchy wool and ties.

The unspoken assent among the students that class should be dismissed, or at least a window opened, was palpable and most unwelcome to Jacqueline Delacroix. She found herself defending the stagnant summer air as a pleasant sauna, the musty odor of _The Advanced Book of Spells_ a homecoming to her beloved school.

She looked down at the stack of grubby parchment squatting on her desk. Ha. Beloved.

Yes, the position of Professor's assistant stifled her passionate spirit to the point of agony. Year after year she devoted to herself to excelling in Charms. Now, in her seventh year, she found herself sculpting and refining some semblance of Charms acolytes out of students who were somewhat inept and wholly uninterested. She almost physically ached to be graduated, out there with the Aurors and other greats, using her considerable talent to aid those who would recognize and appreciate.

And yet, the Professor's plea for a decent witch to fill the position had been too compelling and Hogwarts was far too dear to her heart. It seemed strange that she should now find herself at the beck and call of the leader of the Ravenclaw community, a Slytherin herself. The melodramatic swots were frustratingly good at this breed of magic, and her fellow Slytherins could not do more to fail her if they tried. It seemed as if they were spiting her, casting her out for her exceptional gift. Not that she minded. She might not have friends, but one day those glassy-eyed idiots slouching before her would do so in cramped offices miles below her own lavish perch in the Ministry.

Her brow knotted as the sight before her continued to vex. A fly bumbled most annoyingly around the golden heat of the windows behind her. Ah, Charms in September. She lifted the uncomfortable warmth of her heavy red hair from the nape of her neck and checked the clock facing opposite her desk.

She would not begrudge her fellow students their doldrums, their disrespect, and in fact relished the thought of their apathy turning to shock in approximately ten minutes. Filius Flitwick was not the forerunner in his field and Charms professor at this institute for nothing. His writings on the emergence of Charms in the wizarding world had gained renown in more universe than one.

It had been years since the Bifrost connecting Earth to Asgard was open for travel, and yet very few wizards had persuaded these new and strangely aloof neighbors to pay visits. It seemed that the appeal the Viking people held for the Asgardians had not resurfaced in the modern wizard. Luckily, this disinterest seemed to have stayed their mighty hands, though they seemed a generally wise race and one lacking in outright aggression. But Professor Flitwick had managed to catch the attention of one of the Old Ones: Loki Laufeyson. If the students didn't care much for the words of the witch for whom the position of professor's aide had been created, they damn well would care for the ones of a Norse God.

Of all the students in the drowsy assembly of the South Tower, Cecilia Robinson was the most attentive. Her thoughts were spent almost entirely on the task at hand, though she certainly did not number among the more successful of her Slytherin brothers at producing an Aguamenti charm. The empty crystal goblet glittered mockingly to the side of her copy of _The Advanced Book of Spells_, open to a page of incredibly unhelpful instructions. No matter how hard she thrust her wrist into the motion, she never could seem to produce the twisting the spell required.

Leaning back into her seat, she blew a strand of milk-white hair from her eyes with no small amount of contempt. The seventh-year missed the days when Goshawk's _Spells _were _Standard_, but found comfort in the word "excellent" scribbled in green ink on the scroll Flitwick had returned to her as class commenced. It had been the same word written on her Charms paper for the past six years.

Her frame relaxed along with her attitude at the thought of her first days at Hogwarts, the first time she really knew where her academic dreams were headed. It was the author of the text they were scouring now, Miranda Goshawk, who had inspired her awe for the elegance of Charms. Charms, Miranda had explained in its pages, was the most natural form of magic. Where Transfiguration was haughty with the power of change, and Herbology humble in its passively borrowed magic, Charms was a gentle exertion of the wizard's will on the word around it. It altered, subdued, and blighted, even, but it was neither cruel nor yielding. It was the oldest magic, the magic of will.

Anansi of the Old World, Kokopelli of the ancient western tribes, and Loki Laufeyson of the Nords knew and manipulated the core magic of enchanting back when the first humans experienced the world around them only as some unknownable dream. The first wizards who crafted the spells that bound the raw power of charms only scratched the surface of what the first gods knew. What wizards knew today was a mere vapor of the possibilities charms promised. If she could crack that knowledge…

But the point was moot. Her dexterity in the craft of magic came to a dead halt when it came to the minute ministrations of Charm work. Her mind, though quick, lacked the precise concentration it took to cast the painfully specific patterns of hexes and jinxes. Beyond the most elementary movements, she was hopeless. It was only through her iron resolve to excel at everything but the field-work aspect of Charms that she had budged into the upper division courses.

Stupid wand. She frowned at the instrument in her hand: pear, 13 ¾ inches, phoenix feather core, slightly swishy and _massively_ shite at Charms.

The frustration sparkled on her pale face to rival the glint the sun imbued in her perspiration.

Jerking her out of her maudlin thoughts was the anxious wail of the oak doors to the classroom gaping open. Prof. Flitwick shuffled in at a remarkable pace for a man older than Quick-Quotes Quills, a merry smile on his face.

Neither Jacqueline nor Cecilia noticed the oddly horned shadow playing at the entryway as Flitwick roosted on his stool to make an announcement to the class.

"Students," he squeaked, "I present to you for the first time at Hogwarts a being of profound celebrity in all nine realms. He has agreed to address my advanced students as a personal favor, and I expect you all to give him the respect he has earned from both our societies. Remember, you are representing all wizarding kind! It is my great honor and deepest esteem to welcome Lord Loki Laufeyson of Asgard!"

The shadow became corporeal.


	2. Professor Laufeyson

Loki Laufeyson's first impression of the Midgardian mages was what could only be described as underwhelming. He had surmised that those humans who had evolved enough to draw more from the universes than what was handed to them would be at least a tier above the rest in sentience. No, they still robotically performed their mundane routines, carrying grand delusions about their worth and power and settling for less. The wizards shared all of the less endearing "Muggle" qualities that caused only suffering, insisting upon subscribing to group thought while thinking themselves above it.

It truly was tiresome.

Fortunately, the prospect of dominating the finest Midgard had to offer in terms of species was a bit too tempting to ignore. Too long had this world ignored the sovereignty of their gods. At least the Nords knew their place, as laughably simple as they were. When this Filius Flitwick had caused a ripple with his studies into the Old Ones, the old siren call stirred in the Lord of Mischief's soul. Dominance.

A sweet and supple flock of worshippers, pledging fealty to him for all of Asgard to see? Yes. Odin's precious mortals would break under the weight of wizard rule. His rule, ultimately. He could almost taste the bitter iron of bloodshed in his name, Thor's pathetic fall from grace as the masses cried for the son of Laufey.

And so, when Filius Flitwick had asked, he came. Magic in Midgard had gestated long enough. It was ready to receive its sovereign, to be put in its place.

The sight really was underwhelming. In effect, the furrowed expressions on the faces of the wizard young learning their rudimentary "spells" only served to disappoint him. He required bright followers, ambitious follower, adoring followers. Not ones that blamed the spells in lieu of their own incompetence when they failed, as he could clearly read in their postures of defeat.

The only wizard he could spot that seemed at ease with the item conducting the magic was the one seated in a place of honor. From his vantage point tucked underneath the lofted desks, he watched her lazily twist the dark instrument in her hand to procure a clear liquid in a pewter cup. It was almost charming, he thought with a wry smile, how she seemed to sway from saying the spell in silence and tracing the words on her lips in a whisper: "Aguamenti". The cup filled to critical capacity, threatening to burst the swollen meniscus about the edge as she lifted it with the power of her wand and poured it onto an already flooded potted plant. Clearly, she was bored.

This one at least entertained him. He enjoyed how she let her guard down, not worried about the opinions of her peers and let displeasure manifest unabashed on her petite features. How she carelessly exposed her little doe-like neck, relieving it of the weight of her cinnamon halo of hair. It would please him in that moment to handle her by her crisp white blouse, vulnerably devoid of opacity by her heated and sweaty skin, and wring the air out of that tiny neck. He did so enjoy their fragility, how like flies they could be swatted from existence with the flick of a little finger.

He wasn't there to entertain Flitwick, but he did need his trust, so that would be most unwise. While his false copy was busy greeting the wizard in the halls below, he had been surveying his true target: the students of Hogwarts. This interim position as a guest lecturer enabled him to eke out the elite of his new army.

The room stirred slightly as his double paused in the doorway in Flitwick's wake.

The whole situation was smacking of success and he smoothed his robes with a certain self-satisfaction. The red-headed witch seemed to be sharing a similar sentiment. Oh, how delightful it was to watch her grossly misplaced smugness as she anticipated his arrival. The Trickster god found himself eager to watch her face fall when she'd realize he'd been there the whole time, watching them, watching her.

After the quick introduction, his doppleganger made a grand show of sweeping through the chamber, glittering with his particular brand of frosty glory. A few brief words were spoken when his double took his place at the podium, and then for the fun bit.

The copy pivoted around to pluck the cup from the smug witch's hands, watching her choke back a mixture of shock and indignity. Ah, she likes her boundaries. How unfortunate for her.


	3. Class Dismissed

Cecilia was at a loss for words. When Loki himself swaggered into the room it was like someone had punched her in the chest. Flitwick couldn't be in his right mind! Loki Laufeyson lecturing at Hogwarts? She could have died.

Unsure of what to do with herself, she grasped the arm of the witch sitting next to her in equal shock. They both managed to squeak at each other, tittering in their seats, before leering again at the horned figure at the podium.

Soundlessly and without motion, the Norse god drew water from the cup in a thread that seemed to have no end. It spun itself into a massive shape on the floor before them. Each witch and wizard held their collective breath as it took the form of a graceful, eight-legged steed and turned to ice.

"Sleipnir!" Cecilia hooted to herself, pursing her lips in glee. Her eyes looked like big blue saucers as Loki destroyed the masterpiece as easily as he'd summoned it to be. With quite the conceited grin, he'd smashed it into glittering pieces that danced on the floorboards and turned to fog.

The small gathering of wizards filled the room with awed applause, shouting to each other about the grandiose display.

All except Jacqueline were amused. Maybe, she thought, these sheep that passed as Charms scholars were enchanted by the simple parlor tricks, but certainly not she. And she wanted her cup back.

An Asgard-trained son of a Frost Giant was certainly going to be gifted but she found his cavalier display to be simply egregious. It seemed as if he expected them to fall down and kiss his boots because he could do advanced spells without a wand. "Codswallop," she muttered to herself.

He imparted his other-worldly knowledge to them for the remainder of the class, much to Jacqueline's chagrin. Her expectations that they would learn something actually relevant to their futures as Charms specialists had be effectively unfulfilled. Anyone who was actually paying attention, she thought, would realize that he wasn't actually telling them anything wizards didn't already know about magic, dressing it up in a convoluted diatribe.

She tore at the edge of the sock that reached aggravatingly all the way up her thigh, suffocating her in the heat. Jacqueline wanted nothing more than a cool glass of pumpkin juice and some time away from these simpering sycophants.

Eventually, the students filed out, abuzz with conversations about their encounter with His Royal Fuckstick. Jacqueline packed up her quills and parchment in a hurry, eager to leave Flitwick to the business of preening Loki's considerable feathers.

"Excuse me, miss." The oily voice made her skin crawl with the part of her that remained starstruck. Quickly feeling more annoyed than anything, Jacqueline turned on her heel and managed a polite, "Yes, Lord Laufeyson?"

"Aren't you forgetting your property?" He extended a pale hand, one of the few parts of his anatomy not encrusted with ceremonial armor or jewels, and offered her the little cup.

Jacqueline hollowed her cheeks, a flattering sight in Loki's opinion, and clipped towards him. As she grasped the cup, she gave out a little cry and it dropped from her hands. It felt completely frozen, so much that it burned. Jacqueline swore she saw the god give a little smirk as she swooped to snatch it off the ground. She tossed it awkwardly from hand to hand, eventually getting it into her satchel.

Flustered and angry at appearing so, Jacqueline looked him squarely in the eye and said, "Thank you," in a voice as icy as the chalice.

As she sashayed out of the tower, Loki relished the little irritated swish of her hips, how her skirt rose and fell with her curt walk that ironically made it less threatening and more appealing. He excused himself from Flitwick's side and left in a relaxed state of satisfaction.

At the tower's exit, his self-assured meditative state was disturbed, feeling a pair of eyes on the back of his neck. He paused, his robes billowing in front of him and he turned just enough to find a pale form rapidly retreat behind a corner. He found himself smiling, recognizing her as one of the adoring fans from Advanced Charms.

Cecilia was indeed watching him from the bend in the hall, trying to absolve what she felt was a childish need to drink in his celebrity. She could never have prepared for his presence at Hogwarts, let alone imagine him to be the man he was. The god, she corrected herself. Something about him held her spellbound, and she couldn't put her finger on what it was. She could only stare at him in vain, attempting to sort out the muddle of her feelings, the likes of which beginning to scare her.

Loki had had enough time to memorize her face before she'd disappeared. She was still there, though – he concentrated and heard her heart beat faster than a little rabbit's as she pinned herself against a wall, listening.

A rabbit, Loki thought, is exactly what she is. That pale, soft face, that unassuming and curious blue stare. Everything about her was the color of milk, and she trembled like a spring hare. She smelled oddly of fear, and… "Ah." He said softly. A curiosity she didn't understand herself. Worth noting.

He continued down the marble stairs that lead to the outdoor corridors. He would make a mental note to study that one more closely. He could use that kind of devotion. He could play with it.


End file.
